


if we only die once, i wanna live with you

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, Dry Humping, F/M, Light Angst, Pining, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: The aftereffects of the wars hang heavy on the survivors, but Jon finds himself unburdened by the toll they had taken on him... and yet, he only feels so free when he shares Sansa's bed.(title from "something i need," by onerepublic)





	if we only die once, i wanna live with you

The wars are over, but the aftereffects keep a strong hold on its survivors. Jon knows this perhaps better than anyone—he, once nothing but a bastard to a high-born family, has since become the resurrected, the hero reborn, and the king who had relinquished his crown to the rightful queen.

Nothing—not his rebirth, nor his triumph over the White Walkers—raises eyebrows more than when Jon returns from the war, only to kneel at the hem of Sansa Stark’s skirts and offer his sword.

“Winterfell is yours,” he says, and her heart lodges itself in her throat. “The North is yours. Our family is yours, and I am at your service.”

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of the wind whipping against the stone walls of the castle. And then...

“Jon.” Sansa’s voice is so quiet that it could not carry across the winter breeze to those watching in the courtyard. It had been so quiet, yet it is the loudest, clearest thing Jon has ever heard.

He raises his gaze to hers, and she bids him stand. He does so slowly, eyes never leaving hers, and she throws her arms around him and pulls him so close that he can feel the beat of her heart. Jon returns the embrace, his gloved hands digging into her waist, nose buried into the sweet-smelling hair at her temple, and his tears leave tracks on her skin.

Longclaw slips from his grip and clatters upon the stones at their feet.

* * *

It is not entirely proper, but propriety is hardly thought of now when compared to safety, security, and comfort. There are more important things than the rules they had grown up on, Jon tells himself every night when he joins Sansa in her bed.

They are only cousins, after all, and the North is their kingdom. Jon should not feel guilt for that; indeed, he should not feel half the things festering in his gut whenever Sansa so much as crosses his mind, but there is nothing to be done for it. He only wishes that he could keep it to himself, but he doesn’t know how to stop Bran from knowing, or Arya from seeing.

Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven, the omniscient little lord with the secret smile upon his lips when Sansa enters a room and Jon’s heart sputters fiercely, rapidly, wistfully. Arya, who had never likened to lies and untruths, who glares at Jon when his eyes are all for Sansa until he senses Arya’s own boring into him. More than once, she had chucked the nearest fruit at his head, jarring Jon from thoughts that he shouldn’t be entertaining in the first place.

But that is not what Arya says now, when she upends her goblet of wine on his head and hisses in his ear, “If you’re going to moon over her, you might as well marry her.”

Shaking the mulled red from his eyes, Jon catches her by the arm before she can stalk off and bites back, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sansa has tolerated a lot from men, but I won’t,” Arya snaps. She is not accustomed to bickering with Jon, but she will for her sister’s sake. “She will be ever the lady, smiling and patient and she’ll let you down so gently that you’d think it was your idea to quit pursuing her. Haven’t you seen her with the other men?”

Jon’s gut clenches, and does so whenever he thinks of Arya’s words. Is it envy, protectiveness, some crazed need to keep his eyes on Sansa to deter any others? He doesn’t quite know, but Arya seems to.

“I don’t know what she wants from you. She won’t tell me,” Arya confesses, her voice obstinate as ever. “But I know what you want from her, and it’s not fair for you not to tell her. So do it, or I promise you, Jon, the White Walkers won’t be the last battle you’ve fought.”

“Is that a threat?” he asks, unable to stop the quirk of his lips at the thought of Arya taking up arms to defend her sister’s honor.

Entirely unamused, Arya picks up the nearest knife and buries it into the wood of the table in front of him.

“Yes,” she says, all too calmly, and leaves Jon dripping with wine at his seat.

* * *

Sansa is a restless sleeper, and if she spends her nights alone then she doesn’t sleep at all. Something in Jon aches when he sees the purple shadows blooming beneath her eyes. She says it’s nothing, but her words are thick and her voice hoarse. Her eyes are tinged red from lack of sleep and the frustrated tears that follow.

“You could find her a husband,” Bran suggests. “Then she won’t be alone.”

A tic starts in Jon’s jaw. “I won’t marry her off just for a night’s rest.”

Bran’s answering grin is so devil-may-care that it makes Jon scowl. His brother, his cousin, his liege lord, as it were, is teasing him, and it drives Jon mad. The boy had been instrumental in the war against the White Walkers, but he’s still only a boy—old as his soul may be—and he positively revels in poking and prodding at the ideas in Jon’s head.

_You could find her a husband_ , Bran had said, and all Jon can think is that it could be him.

But they remain unwed, to others as well as to each other, and yet Jon shares her bed as a husband would. Only he does not touch her, kiss her, hold her. Rather he lies awake beside her, staring at the ceiling and counting his breaths as he struggles into sleep.

Sansa’s own breathing is labored, peppered with whimpers and sighs that could drive a man wild from want of her. Her body twitches and her fingers twist into the furs. Her brow furrows and she bites her lip so hard that it often breaks and bleeds. Jon swipes his thumb across the hurt and whispers reassuring words into the darkness:

_Shh. It’s alright, sweet girl. You’re home. I’m here._

Her hand curls around his own, and her breath is sweet and shallow upon his skin.

* * *

It is well past midnight and the candles have burned down to nothing but dying embers in nubs of wax. Jon had been watching the shadows play across the walls until Sansa stirred some hours ago; since then he has been watching the shadows tease the light upon her skin.

She is laying on her stomach beside him, her head turned in his direction as though she knows he wishes to look his fill of her while no one else is around.

And no one is. They are alone, separated from the rest of the world by stone walls, a locked door, and all the hours between now and dawn, when the rest of Winterfell would wake.

Suddenly the air is thick and somehow saccharine and Jon can’t quite breathe it; it pins him down, forces his eyes open and focused on Sansa. Even in restless sleep, she is sweet. Her hair is mussed and she is beautiful. Her mouth is soft in the lingering candlelight, and she is everything Jon has wanted and never imagined he could have.

_Gods, let me love her._

Her brows knit and she grumbles in something like frustration. On instinct, Jon’s hand takes hers, and Sansa’s fingers clutch but tonight, she does not settle. There is a sigh on her lips that turns into a whine, and her nails bite into Jon’s skin so forcefully that he twitches in response—his eye, his hands, his cock, his leg, his toes. She touches him one place and he feels it _everywhere_. She resonates within him, and Jon whimpers from the need to pull her from his bones so that he might capture her heart just the same.

But he cannot move—paralyzed by his own fear, by the syrup in the air, by the mesmerizing way her mouth twitches and the curve of her hand around his.

Her eyelids flutter, and she says his name.

“Sansa?” His mouth is dry and his voice brittle, but she does not respond with wakefulness as he thought she might. She only sighs, and her thumb canvasses the back of his hand, and the bed shifts when she readjusts her position—

And readjusts.

And readjusts again.

His name is on her lips—pretty, pink, unkissed lips—while her hips undulate into the bed beneath them.

Blood roars in his ears and rushes down to his cock before Jon can think twice. He can’t think at all, not when Sansa’s body is rolling into the furs and she’s sighing, sighing, sighing _Jon, Jon, Jon_. Not when her fingers release his and grasp his wrist, tugging him closer. Not when her mouth is opening on his palm, her tongue tracing the lines that bear the secrets of his future—a future full of her, it must be a future full of her or else Jon doesn’t want a moment of it.

“Sansa,” he says again, and this time his voice is nothing but a plea.

“Jon,” she says, and her eyes open just enough so she might survey him from beneath lashes like spiderwebs. Her breath is broken and wanting when she kisses his palm once more. “Please.”

There are a thousand things she could mean, and yet there is only one. It seems impossible, and yet Jon has never known he and her to be any other way. He had always wanted more than he allowed her to see, than he allowed himself to have or even acknowledge. There had been too much standing in their way—a complex past, an unknowable future, the family that bound them and the wars that had torn them asunder. But now…

Now there is nothing between them but one move, one breath, and Jon cannot deny himself of the want in Sansa’s eyes. It’s desperate, entreating, inviting, and Jon cannot tear himself away. He hasn’t the heart, for he’s already given it to her.

_Anything._ He would give her anything. Everything. 

His hand grips hers again—not to comfort this time, but to use as leverage to roll her beneath him, and his mouth takes hers along the way.

Her mouth opens beneath the insistence of his own, and she is warmer than the hot springs in the godswood. His free hand goes to her hip to direct her movements against him and he meets her thrust for thrust. There are layers separating them, but Jon feels her hot and ready as though he’s already slid inside her. He wants to feel her clench around him—his fingers, his cock, he wants to lap up her release like the starving dog he is.

Sansa’s fingers twist in his hair like a vice and Jon moans her name into her mouth.

His grip moves to the back of her knee, her skin bare beneath her shift, and hitches her leg around his waist. Her back arches and he hardens when he meets her core again. The friction frizzles in Jon’s veins and he wants more, more, more, until his ends crackle and pop and burn out, until he is nothing but ashes dusting Sansa’s skin.

She tugs so forcefully at his nightshirt that it tears down the middle. He tosses its remnants aside while her soft, unblemished palms explore the hard ridges of the scars embedded in his chest. Her fingertips dance upon his heartbeat—a rapid, staccato rhythm that begs and takes and sets his mind whirling when her nails bite into his skin. He moves his mouth to the pulse in her throat, tasting the life within her, lavishing his tongue against flesh sweeter than the finest Dornish wine.

His hands scramble for her arse to pull her more firmly against him. Harsh breaths are exchanged from ear to ear, and Jon fucks her into the bed like there are no clothes between them.

A mewling sound rips from Sansa’s throat and pulsates in Jon’s cock.

He scrambles again, this time for her smallclothes, which tear far more easily than his shirt had. His hand joins his gyrating hips to find her wet and wanting him.

“There we are, sweet girl,” he murmurs, his lips only a whisper against hers when really he wants to take, take, take everything she’ll give to him. She arches again and yanks him closer, she rotates her hips insistently, wantonly, feverishly, and she lets herself groan so loudly that the sound settles in the stone walls around them.

Jon brushes her cunt with callused, steady fingers. He finds her clit and she rubs into his touch and the thrust of his dick, all the while moaning his name like it’s the only word she knows: _Jon, Jon, Jon…_

“Tell me,” he breathes into her mouth. He swipes his tongue against her bottom lip, then dips inside to taste his name on her sighs. “Tell me, Sansa, what you want from me.”

He brings her to climax as though she’s been waiting for it, for him, and she says _Love me_.

Her hands tear at the laces of his breeches and her hand is shaking but sure around him, and he says _I do_.

Jon slides into her tight warmth, and Sansa rides his strokes like he was made for her, and she for him. She leaves her fingerprints scattered on his shoulders, his neck, painting her claim on the sides of his ribs. His heart patters into her touch, and he feels hers pounding in her chest while he takes himself deeper, when his hands find her tits and he thinks _mine, mine, mine_.

_Yours_ , she promises with her lips on his jaw, and he vows the same.

Her mouth takes his as she took his heart: suddenly, completely, with a fierce dedication and the need to have, to hold, to protect, to love washing over him like the waves of the seas he would have crossed to get to her. She had given him renewed purpose, a reason to fight when all the fight had gone out of him, and now he gives himself to her in the sweetest relief he’ll ever know.

* * *

_You could find her a husband_ , Bran had said, and all Jon can think is that it could be him.

And so once again Jon kneels at the hem of Sansa Stark’s skirts, and offers himself to her. She launches herself into his arms, and she finds home in a heart that’s been waiting for her.

“If you’re going to moon over her, you might as well marry her,” Arya had said, with sparkling eyes and a knowing smirk.

And so he does.


End file.
